“Better keep low,” Jim advised. Then came a series of flashes, and Mr. Fenton managed to get their location straightened out.
“We’re still a mile north and about half way across the lake,” he volunteered. “I see Fisher’s Point, the north end.”
“Thanks.”
Jim brought the plane about hard, raced her across, then shut off the engine just as a flash revealed the cove at the south end. The boy could see branches being tossed on the waves and hoped hard that none of them would cripple Her Highness when she dropped down. Another prayer he sent up fervently was that the space was wide enough for them to stop short of the rocks. They hit the water, rocked forward and up and down choppily, then stopped, just as someone came racing along the shore waving a lantern.
“Is that you, Norman?” It was Mrs. Fenton and she was so frightened that she could hardly speak. Her face showed white in the darkness and she gripped the light as if she would crush it.
“We’re all present and accounted for, Belle,” her husband answered quickly as he hastened to get loose from the straps.
“Hello everybody!” That was Bob who bobbed up in the back seat like a jack in the box. “So, this is London, and here we are!”
“Oh, I’ve been so terrified. I telephoned to Burlington when I saw the storm coming and they said that you had started. It—it’s been just awful, awful.” Mr. Fenton splashed through the water to reach her side.
“We’re a bit damp, Belle, but otherwise perfectly fine.”
“I knew you would all be killed—” she insisted.